Yuánfèn
by WinterSky101
Summary: Even in the best of times, three certain words can be hard to say. While planning a revolution, it's exponentially harder. (Also known as the five times Combeferre didn't tell Courfeyrac he loved him, and the one time he did.) Warning for canonical character deaths on the barricade.


**Hello and welcome to Barricade Day, Part 2.**

**As I said in yesterday's fic, I couldn't decide if I wanted to celebrate Barricade Day yesterday (when they make the barricade) or today (when they all die), so I decided I would just celebrate it both days. Today's fic is sadder than yesterday's. Note the Major Character Death - I wrote the barricade scene where everyone dies.**

**The title is Chinese and is an idea that is related to Buddhism. Basically, it's the thought that relationships are predetermined, and it's sort of a "binding force" between two people who are meant to be together. There's a Wikipedia page, if you're interested.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Les Mis.**

* * *

_i. When They Met_

"Combeferre?"

"Mmm?" Combeferre asked, not looking up from his book. He had known Enjolras for years, and he knew what Enjolras' different tones of voice meant. He recognized the one Enjolras was using. Whatever he was going to say, he was not going to say it directly.

"You have not met many law students, have you?" Enjolras asked. Combeferre shook his head, turning the page.

"You know as well as I that the only law student I know well is you, Enjolras," he replied. "Why?"

"There is a law student in one of my classes named M. Courfeyrac," Enjolras replied. Combeferre frowned slightly, finally looking up from his book.

"Simply M. Courfeyrac?" he asked. The name seemed to be missing something.

"His name was originally M. de Courfeyrac, but he chose to remove the 'de,' finding it too pretentious for his liking," Enjolras explained. Combeferre smiled.

"Ah, so he is politically inclined, as we are?"

"Yes," Enjolras replied. "His views are quite similar to ours. That is why I have invited him to lunch."

"Today?" Combeferre asked, fixing his untied cravat quickly. Enjolras nodded.

"He should arrive in a few minutes. You have no problem with this, I trust?"

"A bit more warning would have been nice," Combeferre replied wryly, tucking his cravat into his waistcoat, which he buttoned up. "But otherwise, I should like to meet your new _ami_."

A moment later, Enjolras straightened slightly. "Ah. He approaches." Combeferre looked up and saw a young man approaching them. Immediately, Combeferre wondered how exactly he had attracted Enjolras to him. The man was undeniably a dandy, wearing a fashionable waistcoat and cravat with a fine hat. His clothes looked expensive, which should have been enough to turn Enjolras against him. Combeferre had seen it happen before.

As the man saw Enjolras, his face lit up into a smile that Combeferre had to admit was charming. He took off his hat to reveal dark, curly hair.

"M. Enjolras!" he called, beaming. "A thousand thanks for inviting me to lunch with you." The man's eyes lit upon Combeferre. "But who is this?"

"My name is Combeferre," Combeferre stated, introducing himself. "I am another friend of Enjolras'."

"My name is Courfeyrac." Eyes sparkling, Courfeyrac held out a hand to shake. Combeferre accepted it. Courfeyrac had a firm handshake, at least; a point in his favor.

"A pleasure to meet you," Combeferre told him politely.

"Oh no, the pleasure is all mine," Courfeyrac replied, still beaming. Combeferre wasn't used to people who were that cheery.

"Oh, _pardon_," Enjolras interjected suddenly. "I see someone with whom I must speak. I shall return in a moment." Combeferre pursed his lips, but didn't comment. Courfeyrac sat down in the empty third seat as Enjolras walked off. Combeferre sighed and returned to his book.

"What are you reading?" Courfeyrac asked after a moment of silence. Combeferre didn't look up as he answered.

"A book on moths."

"Ah, entomology?" Courfeyrac asked, sounding intrigued. Combeferre was slightly surprised he knew the word. Perhaps he was being too harsh on this young dandy. "Is that what you study?"

"No," Combeferre replied, still not looking up. "I am a student of medicine. And I study philosophy on the side, as well as having an interest in politics."

"You have an interest in both philosophy and politics?" Courfeyrac asked, sounding excited. "May I ask your opinion on what you think the Romantic movement means for our governmental system?"

"Pardon?" Combeferre asked as he looked up, slightly shocked. Courfeyrac's cheeks went pink.

"You need not, if you do not wish it. It's only... I have a friend who is quite a Romantic, and we have often debated on the influence the movement will have on politics. I believe a movement based on pathos should have no place in the government, which should be based on logos. However, my friend disagrees, believing the Romantic movement is a necessary development in politics that will help in the future." Combeferre was shocked at the eloquence of the argument. He must have been mistaken in his immediate judgment of Courfeyrac.

"M. Combeferre?" Courfeyrac asked cautiously, when Combeferre didn't respond. "Have I insulted you somehow? I apologize. I'm normally quite good with people, but if I-"

"My apologies," Combeferre interrupted. "I was merely formulating my thoughts into a cohesive argument." With a slight smile, Combeferre shut his book for the first time that morning. "I must admit that I would take a position between you and your friend."

"Yes?" Courfeyrac asked eagerly. Combeferre began to elaborate, and when Enjolras returned to the table half an hour later, he found his friends engaged in a fast-paced conversation on the respective places of logos and pathos in the government.

"I see you two have found a common ground," Enjolras mentioned in an amused voice. Both Courfeyrac and Combeferre jumped.

"Oh, Enjolras! Have you and Courfeyrac spoken on the Romantic movement? He is quite well-versed in it," Combeferre complimented. Courfeyrac smiled shyly.

"'Tis not I that is an expert, but my friend," he replied. "He is a Romantic poet himself, and never tires of telling me about Romanticism. I was merely asking Combeferre's opinion on our ongoing debate on whether or not Romanticism has a place in politics. His views are quite fascinating."

"I know little of philosophy," Enjolras admitted. "I leave pathos to Combeferre and focus on logos myself."

"You are too modest," Combeferre immediately disagreed. "You are quite good with pathos as well. Have you heard any of his speeches, Courfeyrac?"

"No, but I should like to," Courfeyrac replied, grinning. Enjolras' lips twitched into a slight smile.

"Perhaps I shall give a speech for you someday. But for now, do you not need to leave? I thought you told me you could not stay long."

"Has it been that long?" Courfeyrac asked, pulling out a pocketwatch. He looked at it in shock. "Goodness! I must be going! Thank you for inviting me, M. Enjolras. It was a pleasure to meet you, M. Combeferre."

"It was a pleasure to meet you as well," Combeferre replied, holding out his hand for Courfeyrac to shake again. Instead, Courfeyrac pulled it to his lips and pressed a kiss to the back of it before sweeping up his hat and bowing.

"I hope to see you both again soon!" he called as he walked off. Combeferre watched as he left.

"You're blushing," Enjolras told Combeferre in an amused voice. Combeferre immediately grabbed his book and opened it, holding it in front of his face.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he muttered, resolutely ignoring Enjolras' amused expression and going back to his book.

But despite the fact that the book was his favorite, he couldn't help but think of curly hair and sparking eyes and the way the back of his hand still burned where Courfeyrac had kissed it.

* * *

_ii. When They Started Les Amis de l'ABC_

Enjolras was pacing. Combeferre sighed, watching him with amusement.

"Stop worrying."

"I'm not worrying," Enjolras replied automatically. Combeferre raised an eyebrow. "Not much, at least."

"Things will be fine," Combeferre reassured. Enjolras frowned.

"You can say that. Your friend came." He gestured to Joly, one of Combeferre's fellow medical students that was also rather political. He was over at the bar, ordering something and chatting with the owner of the Café Musain, the meeting place for their new, impromptu group.

"Courfeyrac will be here soon," Combeferre promised, even though it was true that Courfeyrac was late. Enjolras was wringing his hands, though he had at least stopped pacing. "Stop worrying!" Combeferre repeated. "It is quite unlike you."

"I don't know what I am to do," Enjolras admitted. "What should I say?"

"Give your speech," Combeferre advised. "You will be as grand as you always are, and Joly and Courfeyrac are sure to be entranced."

"Very well." Enjolras sat down, grabbing the papers in front of him and flipping through them rapidly, shuffling them nervously. Combeferre sighed.

"A thousand apologies for being late!" a familiar voice cried. Both Enjolras and Combeferre looked up to see Courfeyrac entering the café, with another young man following him. "I was delayed by my friend here. M. Enjolras, M. Combeferre, this is _mon ami_ Jean Prouvaire. He is the poet I told you about. He wished to come to the meeting with me."

"_Bonjour_!" Prouvaire cried, beaming. He turned to Combeferre "Ah, and you must be the Combeferre on whom Courfeyrac never tires to speak! I heard you have an interesting opinion on the places of logos and pathos in government. I should like to hear more about it."

Combeferre smiled slightly. Prouvaire was a young man, looking to be around Courfeyrac's age. He had long, auburn hair that he had tied at the nape of his neck with a green ribbon, much like how Enjolras tied back his curly blond hair. Prouvaire was wearing mismatching floral patterns that somehow looked charming on him, and his cheeks had a slight pink flush. All in all, the first word Combeferre would think of to describe him would be sweet.

"M. Courfeyrac, M. Prouvaire, this is M. Joly," Combeferre introduced. Joly bowed slightly, tapping his nose with his cane.

"A pleasure," Courfeyrac replied, shaking hands with Joly. Prouvaire followed suit.

"Shall we begin, then?" Enjolras asked, looking as still as a marble statue. Combeferre knew it was due to his nerves, but he looked as if he were as calm as could be.

"If we are all ready," Combeferre replied, looking to the others. Joly immediately took a seat. Prouvaire sat next to him, and Courfeyrac came over to sit next to Combeferre, on Prouvaire's other side.

"Very well." As soon as Enjolras began to give his speech, he relaxed. Combeferre let himself relax as well. It was a good speech, as Enjolras' speeches normally were. Courfeyrac, Prouvaire, and Joly were all clearly hanging on to Enjolras' every word, and even though Combeferre had helped Enjolras write the speech, he still found himself enthralled as well. Enjolras spoke well when he so wished, and his voice could move a rock.

"You were correct," Courfeyrac whispered to Combeferre in a pause. "Enjolras has pathos well in hand."

The speech continued without a hitch, and when Enjolras finally finished, Joly quickly claimed his attention to ask about something related to his politics. Prouvaire joined that conversation, leaving Courfeyrac and Combeferre to speak together.

"Your friend seems quite nice," Combeferre offered. Courfeyrac grinned.

"Oh, he is. But his clothing leaves something to be desired."

"His clothing?" Combeferre asked, looking at Prouvaire with confusion. "I don't understand."

"Look at those patterns!" Courfeyrac whined. "He does not comprehend that a pink paisley floral waistcoat and a green diamond floral cravat do not match. At least he is wearing simple, brown pants. He has a pair of blue floral pants that he delights in wearing with other floral waistcoats." Courfeyrac groaned and flopped into Combeferre's lap overdramatically. "It pains me to see him misuse fashion so!"

Combeferre was shocked into laughing. "Is that your only complaint against your friend?" he asked. Courfeyrac gave him a dirty look.

"Do not belittle my pain," he scolded. "I cannot help that I am more fashionably inclined than he! I try to help him with it, I truly do, but he never understands!"

"I find the mismatched florals to be charming," Combeferre admitted. Courfeyrac groaned.

"Say not such things! And especially not when Jehan is in your hearing. He will simply take it as encouragement."

"Jehan?" Combeferre asked curiously. Courfeyrac nodded. His head was still in Combeferre's lap, which made the movement slightly uncomfortable for both of them.

"His name is Jean, but he prefers Jehan. He finds it more Romantic." Courfeyrac made a face. "He claims his clothes are an expression of his Romantic feelings. He says that he will not be bound by the standards of others. I understand that he wants to be independent, but can't he be independent in _other_ ways?"

"I believe you are too harsh with him," Combeferre told Courfeyrac sternly. "If he wishes to show his independence through his clothing, then you must let him. To do otherwise would infringe upon his rights."

"But what about my rights?" Courfeyrac whined. "Is it not my right to speak my mind? Very well; I shall say that I dislike Jehan's clothing. Is it not my right to act as I please? Very well; I shall attempt to change Jehan's style. And, most importantly, is it not my right to be able to look at my friend without my eyes burning?"

Combeferre couldn't help but laugh. "I find your dramatics quite entertaining. Perhaps you should take to the stage."

"I could never," Courfeyrac replied immediately. "The costumes some actors are forced to wear are simply hideous."

Combeferre chuckled. "Then you must become an orator. You can put your dramatics to good use in declaiming on the state of the world, and inciting revolution. You and Enjolras will work nicely together."

"And you?" Courfeyrac asked, arching his neck to look up at Combeferre. "What is your place in our triumvirate?"

"Ah, so we are a triumvirate now?" Combeferre asked in an amused voice. "I was not aware."

"Yes, we are," Courfeyrac replied firmly. "Tell me, what is your place?"

"I shall help you write your speeches," Combeferre told him. "I shall patch you up when you are hurt. And I shall watch as you change the world, one speech at a time."

"Quite inspirational," Courfeyrac complimented. "Perhaps you should do speeches as well."

"Public speaking is not my forte," Combeferre admitted. "I shall write the speeches, but I shall not give them. I leave that to Enjolras, and now, to you."

"Courfeyrac!" Prouvaire suddenly cried, cutting off whatever Courfeyrac had wanted to say in response. "We are attempting to make a name for our little group. What do you suggest?"

"Hmm." Courfeyrac didn't get up from Combeferre's lap as he thought. Enjolras shot Combeferre an amused look that he resolutely ignored. "Ah!" Courfeyrac cried. "I have it!"

"What is your idea?" Joly asked. Courfeyrac grinned devilishly.

"Les Amis de l'ABC," he proclaimed. "It's a pun, you see?"

"Oh!" Joly started giggling after a moment, and Prouvaire joined him an instant later. Enjolras continued to look confused.

"I do not understand," he admitted. Combeferre didn't mention that he didn't either.

"Les Amis de l'ABC!" Courfeyrac repeated. "When I say ABC, I mean the letters, but what does it sound like?"

"Oh!" Combeferre cried, suddenly understanding. "It sounds like _abaissé_! That's quite good."

"Shall we be Les Amis de l'ABC, then?" Enjolras asked. "We shall take a vote, as a true republic. Who is in favor of the name?"

"I am," Courfeyrac cried immediately. Combeferre, Prouvaire, and Joly were quick to agree.

"It's unanimous, then," Enjolras declared. "We shall be known as Les Amis de l'ABC."

"Well, that was great fun!" Courfeyrac stated cheerfully, finally sitting up. Combeferre's lap felt bare. "Unfortunately, we must leave, must we not, Jehan?"

"Alas, 'tis true," Prouvaire replied with a sigh. "When shall our next meeting occur?"

"I know not," Enjolras admitted. "We shall decide on a time in the future, when we can all meet. And any other friends are welcome. Our group can always expand."

"Farewell!" Joly called as he left. Prouvaire and Courfeyrac followed, with Courfeyrac blowing Combeferre a kiss and winking.

"Is there something going on between you and Courfeyrac?" Enjolras asked, once the others had all left. Combeferre buried his face in his papers.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he told him. That seemed to be a common answer when Enjolras asked about Courfeyrac. It fooled no one; Enjolras raised an eyebrow in disbelief. Combeferre blushed.

"There is nothing between us," he told Enjolras. What he didn't add was that he wished that weren't true.

* * *

_iii. When They Discussed the Charter_

Les Amis de l'ABC grew quickly. While it began as a group of five, the core group quickly grew to nine, adding Joly's friend Lesgle, whom they called Bossuet, Bossuet's friend Grantaire, Grantaire's friend Bahorel, and a working man Enjolras met named Feuilly. Others attended the meetings, but the core nine were Les Amis. They attended every meeting and even had some privately. The group slowly became less of an organization and more of a family.

Nights at the Musain became less and less focused. Enjolras always gave a speech, but after, Grantaire would invariably become drunk and begin ranting to whoever would listen.

On one particular night, Grantaire and Bossuet were engaged in speaking on life, Bahorel and Joly were discussing love in the corner, Prouvaire was defending Olympus in another, and the others all found themselves spread about the room. Courfeyrac and Combeferre were by the fireplace, arguing vehemently over the Touquet Charter. Combeferre quickly found himself outmaneuvered by Courfeyrac, who argued with such eloquence and spirit that Combeferre found flaws difficult to discover. The thrill of the argument had brought a flush to Courfeyrac's cheeks as well, one that Combeferre found far too distracting.

With great vigor, Courfeyrac seized the copy of the Charter and waved it energetically in Combeferre's face. "In the first place, I won't have any kings," he declared. Combeferre somehow found himself entranced by the movement if Courfeyrac's lips and lost focus, only regaining his composure as Courfeyrac finished with a vehement, "No! No charter!"

The fire crackled and Courfeyrac's eyes lit up. Combeferre knew what he was going to do an instant before he did it, but was too late to stop him; with a dramatic flourish, Courfeyrac crumpled the Charter in his fist and flung it into the flames. Combeferre watched, looking from the burning charter to the excited, flushed look on Courfeyrac's face. Finally, he simply stated, "The charter metamorphosed into flame."

"Well?" Courfeyrac demanded, his eyes bright and eager. "Have you anything to say, or have I won?"

"You have won," Combeferre agreed. Courfeyrac beamed.

"Marvelous!" he cried. "Now, what is my prize?"

"Prize?" Combeferre asked, confused. Courfeyrac nodded eagerly.

"Yes, naturally. If I have won, I must win something. What is it that I have won?"

"What is it you wish?" Combeferre asked. Courfeyrac hummed in thought, then suddenly beamed.

"You must tell me what you think of me," he told Combeferre. "Exactly what you think. I shall not accept any lies."

"What sort of things am I to say?" Combeferre asked, puzzled. "Shall I say that I find you to be a dandy, or something more personal?"

"Say whatever you wish," Courfeyrac replied, beaming widely. "And yes, I am a dandy. You are quite correct."

"You are also quite ridiculous when it comes to fashion," Combeferre added, making Courfeyrac pout. "Your hair, I believe, is curlier than any hair I have ever seen, and your eyes sparkle when you are pleased." The descriptions quickly turned Courfeyrac's expression into a happier one.

"Please continue. I quite like this."

"I'm sure you do," Combeferre replied in an amused voice. "Very well. You never fail to put others before yourself. I have never seen you turn away anyone in need. You are a skilled debater, able to hold your own against Enjolras. I am fairly certain you could convince a rock to smile."

"You shall make me blush," Courfeyrac declared. "Don't stop."

Combeferre laughed. "You make me laugh more than anyone I have ever met," he added. "You are the best friend anyone could ask for. You help anyone who needs it and you are never far from the others. You make yourself always available and you never hide away to escape."

Courfeyrac was smiling. When Combeferre didn't continue, he gestured slightly. "Is there anything else you would like to add? I really do enjoy this quite a bit."

Three words were at the tip of Combeferre's tongue. They came close to spilling out, but he but them back in shock. He could not say such things.

"You are perhaps the most ridiculously dramatic person I have ever met," Combeferre stated. "There. I am done."

"Well, thank you." Courfeyrac was grinning widely and his eyes were sparkling. Combeferre had to get away before those three words tried to escape again. He joined a discussion with Bossuet, with whom he spoke until the other cited the date of Waterloo. Then Marius jumped in, proclaiming loudly that Corsica had made France great. Combeferre shot Courfeyrac a look, who returned it with a slight grin. He seemed more excited than Combeferre, who was slightly worried about what Enjolras would do to Marius. True to form, Enjolras responded to Marius' pro-Napoleon speech by figuratively flaying Marius alive. Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and all the others slipped out of the café. Courfeyrac grinned at Combeferre as they stepped out into the night air.

"It was lovely conversing with you, Combeferre," he called. "Good night!"

"Good night to you as well," Combeferre replied, inclining his head slightly. Courfeyrac left, going off in the opposite direction of Combeferre, who waited a moment before walking off himself.

* * *

_iv. When They Prepared_

The funeral was going to be a huge affair. They all knew what they were going to say and do; Enjolras had the whole thing planned to the second. Combeferre had been subjected to many of Enjolras' original plans before the polished one he presented at the Musain, and all Combeferre could say is that it was good that Enjolras had dropped some of his ideas.

"So," Courfeyrac suddenly said to Combeferre, draping himself across the latter's chair. "Tomorrow is the day."

"Yes indeed," Combeferre replied. "Are you prepared?"

"Are any of us?" Courfeyrac retaliated. He had a point. No one could truly be prepared for something like that.

"Enjolras is certain the people will unite," Courfeyrac added suddenly. He was still practically in Combeferre's lap. "What do you think?"

"I pray they will," Combeferre replied. He would never admit that he didn't really think they would, especially on the night before the protest.

"We should say goodbye to our loved ones," Courfeyrac replied softly. "Just in case."

"I have already written a letter to my parents and sent it off, telling them what we shall do," Combeferre replied. "But it shall not reach them for a long while."

"Where do they live?" Courfeyrac asked curiously.

"Montpellier," Combeferre replied. Courfeyrac looked surprised.

"Really! My sister and her husband live in Montpellier. Her name is Marie, his is Julian LeMaistre."

"I think I may have met them," Combeferre replied, frowning in thought. "The names seem faintly familiar. And where do your parents live?"

"Toulouse," Courfeyrac replied. "I have sent them a letter as well, but it will not reach them for quite a while."

"I fear I will never see my family again," Combeferre admitted quietly. Courfeyrac straightened, shifting to be directly sitting in Combeferre's lap and looking him in the eye.

"Don't fear," he told him sternly. "You must not fear. We are going to protest tomorrow! We must be excited, not afraid."

"But without fear, there cannot be courage," Combeferre argued, "as courage is working through fear. And, as Aristotle said, 'You will never do anything in this world without courage. It is the greatest quality of the mind next to honor.'"

"Touché," Courfeyrac replied with a slight grin. "Nevertheless. You must keep your courage, at least. We all look to you and Enjolras as leaders, so you must be ready to lead."

"You are a leader too," Combeferre added. "You helped us form Les Amis, and you gave us our name."

"Yes, but I am not as much a leader as you or Enjolras," Courfeyrac demurred. Combeferre arched an eyebrow.

"Have you heard what they call the three of us?" he asked, gesturing at the other people there. "Enjolras is the Chief, I am the Guide, and you are the Center. Do you truly think that our Center is not one of our leaders?"

"They truly call me that?" Courfeyrac gasped. Combeferre nodded. "That's delightful!"

"So do you know believe that you are one of our leaders?" Combeferre asked. Courfeyrac's eyes twinkled.

"Well, if the people say so, I suppose I must be. This is a republic, after all."

"Naturally," Combeferre replied seriously, nodding. "It is your duty to be the leader if the people so wish." Combeferre sobered abruptly. "Just as it is the duty of the people to take down their leader if his policies are bad."

"Oh, do not bring politics into this!" Courfeyrac scolded. "We must leave politics behind for the night. You shall come with myself and a few of the others to go out drinking for one last night together."

"It may not be your last," Combeferre contradicted. Courfeyrac beamed.

"That's the spirit! Now, will you come with us of your own volition, or must I force you?"

"You would infringe so upon my rights?" Combeferre gasped in a mock-serious tone. Courfeyrac grinned.

"It's for your own good, and I can be quite a tyrant in these situations." Courfeyrac's eyes were twinkling with humor. Combeferre sighed.

"I suppose I haven't much of a choice, then?" he asked. Courfeyrac beamed.

"None at all!" he replied, standing. Absurdly, Combeferre felt empty without him in his lap. "Shall we?"

"Allow me to fetch my things, at least," Combeferre pleaded, standing as well. "And I must tell Enjolras where I am going. He's sure to be displeased."

"He can come with us, although I know he won't," Courfeyrac offered. Combeferre chuckled.

"That would be a sight," he replied. "Enjolras, out drinking with us and not in our lodgings, writing speeches and preparing to change the world."

"It wouldn't kill him to spend one night doing something fun," Courfeyrac argued. Combeferre laughed.

"This is Enjolras. It just might." Courfeyrac rolled his eyes as Combeferre fetched his things, told Enjolras he wouldn't be able to help him finish up the planning, as he was going out (Enjolras was characteristically displeased), and returned to the doorway. Courfeyrac was waiting there, along with all of the other Amis except Enjolras.

"Combeferre is coming?" Grantaire asked in a surprised tone, taking a sip from his bottle. He was clearly already on his way to drunkenness, but considering the circumstances, Combeferre couldn't find it in himself to blame him. "I wouldn't have guessed that you would."

"I am as human as you, Grantaire," Combeferre replied mildly. "On a night such as this, I crave human contact as much as you do."

"Shall we go, then?" Courfeyrac asked as Grantaire looked over in Enjolras' direction and took another sip from his bottle. "Where is our destination?"

"The Corinthe?" Joly suggested. Bahorel shook his head.

"Matelote and Gibelotte don't like me," he replied, not giving any more reason but that. It was enough, apparently, for Courfeyrac.

"Where, then?" he asked Bahorel, who shrugged.

"I yield to the master of bars and all things alcoholic," he replied, bowing slightly in Grantaire's direction. Grantaire rolled his eyes.

"Why should we bother going out anywhere?" he asked. "Why should we not drink and enjoy each other's company in our own lodgings?"

"A marvelous idea," Courfeyrac replied, beaming. "Now, to whose lodgings shall we go?"

"We can use mine," Prouvaire offered. "It's fairly large, and I don't share with anyone."

"That sounds lovely," Courfeyrac replied, beaming. "Will we all fit? There are eight of us, after all?"

"I believe so," Prouvaire replied.

"I think we will," Feuilly offered quietly. Combeferre arched an eyebrow - how on Earth did Feuilly know the size of Prouvaire's quarters that intimately? - but said nothing. He would not judge his friends if they were closer than they appeared. It was no secret that Joly and Bossuet, along with their mistress Musichetta, were more than just friends. If Prouvaire and Feuilly were as well, it mattered not.

(And it would be very hypocritical, considering Combeferre's own feelings for Courfeyrac.)

* * *

_v. When They Died_

Combeferre was breathing hard, his eyes darting around the barricade. Bahorel and Prouvaire were already dead, but there was no time to mourn them. Little Gavroche, so brave, had also been killed, along with many others whose names Combeferre hated to admit he didn't know. Bossuet, Joly, Feuilly, Courfeyrac, and Enjolras all still lived. Marius was probably somewhere on the barricade. Combeferre didn't know where Grantaire could be found, but he doubted it was in the fighting.

"No!" Combeferre heard Joly scream, and he turned in time to see a bullet hit Bossuet, apparently the second one in quick succession. Joly raced to Bossuet's side and Combeferre followed, but it was clear they could do nothing. Bossuet placed a gentle hand on Joly's cheek, then his eyes went dull and he was gone.

"I'll kill them," Joly whispered. Combeferre just pressed Bossuet's gun into Joly's hand and directed him back to the fighting. They would mourn later, if they survived long enough to do so.

Joly fell not even five minutes after Bossuet. Combeferre felt the pain of the loss deep in his chest, but he knew that Joly and Bossuet could never be separated for long. At least they were together, Combeferre thought wryly, looking around again. Feuilly, Courfeyrac, and Enjolras were still fighting. They could still make it. They could still win. He had to convince himself that they could still win.

"Feuilly!" Combeferre heard Courfeyrac cry out. Combeferre whirled around and saw Feuilly climb over the barricade to try and reach some cartridges of ammunition. Courfeyrac was reaching for him, trying to get him come back.

It was just like what had happened with Gavroche, and Combeferre had the sinking feeling the two stories would end the same way as well.

The first bullet hit Feuilly in the shoulder. He had reached the cartridge and he threw it back to the barricade. Combeferre caught it, giving Feuilly an abrupt nod. A tiny smile graced Feuilly's features.

The second bullet hit him right between the shoulder blades, punching its way through his chest. Feuilly fell, and he was gone.

"Feuilly!" Courfeyrac shrieked again. Combeferre grabbed his arm before he could run out to him, stuffing the cartridge in Courfeyrac's hands.

"Feuilly died for this. Use it widely," he said softly. Courfeyrac nodded, his eyes wet with tears. He loaded his gun quickly. Somewhere along the line, he had abandoned his sword-cane. Combeferre was glad of it; that had been a fairly useless weapon.

The two separated a bit in the next few minutes of fighting, but Combeferre kept an eye on Courfeyrac. He had a terrible feeling deep in his gut that something was going to happen, something horrible, and he was fairly certain he knew what it was going to be.

It came to pass not even five minutes later. There was the harsh blast of a gun, and Combeferre watched in horror as the bullet hit Courfeyrac, making him fall to the ground. Combeferre was there almost immediately.

"Courfeyrac!" he gasped, dropping to his knees at Courfeyrac's side. "No, no, Courfeyrac, you can't die." But the bullet was in Courfeyrac's stomach, soaking his shirt and waistcoat in blood, and Combeferre didn't need to draw on his medical knowledge to know that this was not a wound that could heal.

"Combeferre?" Courfeyrac whispered. "It hurts."

"I know," Combeferre whispered back, gathering Courfeyrac up in his arms. Normally, he would never move an injured person like that, with such carelessness, but Courfeyrac's condition couldn't get much worse.

"I don't want to die," Courfeyrac admitted, his eyes wide and terrified. "I don't want to. We're not even going to win. We'll all die for nothing, and-"

"It is not for nothing," Combeferre replied, brushing Courfeyrac's hair away from his face. "We are fighting for our rights, for our freedoms. That will never be unimportant. We are fighting for a great cause."

"We are dying for a great cause," Courfeyrac corrected. Then he sighed. "But I will not die angry and bitter. That is not how I wish for my life to end." Combeferre didn't say anything about a chance of survival. Both he and Courfeyrac knew there was none.

"I'm so sorry," Combeferre whispered, pressing his lips to Courfeyrac's forehead in a chaste kiss. It would have been so easy to have done that one of the other times Courfeyrac had been in his lap, but he didn't do it until Courfeyrac was dying. Combeferre was so stupid, so cowardly, but there was nothing he could do about it now.

"Do you think we will win?" Courfeyrac whispered. Combeferre knew this was not a time for useless platitudes, but for the truth.

"No," Combeferre whispered back. "But soon, we will all be in the Kingdom of Heaven, and you know how Enjolras feels about kingdoms."

Courfeyrac laughed, but it soon turned into gasping, pained breaths. "I shall see you there, then?" he asked Combeferre. The blood had soaked through nearly his entire waistcoat. Combeferre had the hysterical thought that Courfeyrac was lucky to be wearing red, so it wouldn't show the stain as much. Combeferre knew Courfeyrac didn't have much time left.

"We shall see each other soon," Combeferre replied, his voice choked with tears. Courfeyrac smiled slightly, reaching up with a shaky, bloodstained hand. He wiped away a tear on Combeferre's cheek that Combeferre hadn't realized had fallen.

"Until then," Courfeyrac whispered with a shadow of his mischievous grin on his face. Then his eyes went dim and his hand fell to his chest and no, _no_, he couldn't have died, not before Combeferre told him how he felt, he couldn't be dead.

But Combeferre's shaking fingers found no pulse, and there was no air coming from Courfeyrac's parted lips. He was gone.

Combeferre rested his forehead against Courfeyrac's gently. "I love you," he whispered, but it was only to an empty shell that he spoke, with none of Courfeyrac's spirit and charm and charisma and passion. Combeferre lifted his head, meeting Enjolras' eyes for just an instant. Combeferre knew that Enjolras could see the body in his lap. Slowly, Combeferre nodded, telling Enjolras that his eyes didn't deceive him. Enjolras' eyes went even wider, his bloodstained blond curls framing his shocked face.

Then a stabbing point of pain exploded through Combeferre's chest. He looked down to see a bayonet, covered in his own blood, protruding from his chest. Enjolras' mouth was open in an aborted cry. The bayonet was yanked out and stabbed in again twice in quick succession, leaving three bloody wounds in Combeferre's chest.

Combeferre looked up to the sky. _I'm coming, Courfeyrac,_ he thought, then his body folded forwards and Combeferre lived no more.

* * *

_+i. When They Met Again_

Combeferre opened his eyes in a place made of light. "Combeferre!" he heard a voice cry. An incredibly familiar voice, one he had feared he would never hear again.

"Courfeyrac!" he cried, turning on his heel. Courfeyrac was beaming at him, his clothes impeccably clean again.

"You're here quicker than I thought," Courfeyrac remarked, still beaming as he strolled over to Combeferre. "You weren't being reckless, I hope."

"I wasn't being reckless, I was in the middle of a revolution," Combeferre replied. "You don't need to be reckless to get killed."

"Unfortunately," Courfeyrac replied. "Do you believe that Enjolras can still survive?"

"If anyone could, it would be Enjolras," Combeferre replied. He left off the unsaid, _But I'm not sure that anyone could._ He was certain Courfeyrac heard it anyway.

"Where are the others?" Combeferre asked, trying to change the subject. Courfeyrac shrugged, gesturing vaguely behind him.

"They moved on," he replied. Combeferre frowned.

"Then why didn't you?" he asked. Courfeyrac pursed his lips slightly.

"I wanted to talk to you first. Alone." Courfeyrac twisted the hem of his shirt in his hands, nervous as he never was in life. "I heard what you said, after I died."

"Oh." There was only one thing Combeferre said, only one thing Courfeyrac could have heard, but still, Combeferre asked, "What did you hear?"

"You said you loved me," Courfeyrac said quietly. Combeferre swallowed hard. There was no point in trying to deny it.

"I did."

"Why?"

Of all the questions Combeferre had been expecting, "why" was not one of them. "What do you mean?" he asked. Courfeyrac bit his lip.

"Why did you say it? Do you love me like a brother, or..."

"I love Enjolras as a brother," Combeferre said quietly. "I love you in a very different way."

"Oh." Courfeyrac stopped twisting his hem abruptly. "Have you always..."

"Yes," Combeferre replied as Courfeyrac's voice trailed off. "Since we first met."

"I feel the same," Courfeyrac breathed. He cupped Combeferre's face gently, pressing their foreheads together. "Why didn't you ever say anything?"

"It never seemed to be the right time," Combeferre whispered back. "Why didn't you ever say anything?"

"I didn't think you felt the same way," Courfeyrac whispered. "I wish I had known that my fears were unfounded."

Then Courfeyrac's gentle lips were against Combeferre's, and the rush of a successful protest was _nothing_ compared to this, compared to the feeling of kissing Courfeyrac. "We should have told each other," Combeferre whispered as they broke apart. "We could have had time, we could have had _years_..."

"We have an eternity," Courfeyrac whispered back, slipping his hand into Combeferre's. "Shall we?" he asked, gesturing forward. Combeferre squeezed his hand.

"We shall," he whispered. Hands clasped tightly, they stepped forward.

If death couldn't separate them, then Combeferre was sure that nothing could.

* * *

**A quick note: There are some direct quotes in here that you might have recognized. They're all from the Hapgood translation, which was the one I read. Since I read the Hapgood translation, Joly's death was never actually explicitly stated. I later found that in another translation, he was put as having died between Courfeyrac and Combeferre, I believe. I didn't know that when I wrote this, which is why I had him die right after Bossuet.**


End file.
